


Meeting You

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathbrush, Cane, Childhood, Corporal Punishment, F/M, First Kiss, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Kissing, Punishment, Severe, Spanking, Teenlock, Young Love, deserved, kiss, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enterprise day? Dull. Pretty, lively girl? Interesting. <br/>Sometimes the interesting decision can lead to trouble for eleven year old Sherlock, though.<br/>(If you don't like OC's, it doesn't matter that much - she doesn't feature TOO much, at least not in the action parts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting You

“So, next week is the annual Enterprise day between all of the local schools and we need two team members from First Senior form!”

Miss Jennings was very different to most teachers at Wilkes College and Preparatory School. Aged twenty six, she was very young with a soft, curvy body, a shocking red bob and clear green eyes that could pierce through anyone. Although she was very pretty and gentle, and always called boys by their first name, she had the reputation as being seriously strict...as every boy in First Senior form knew, as she was their form tutor for the year.

“Miss, make Sherlock go, he's dead clever.”

“Yeah, Sherlock should go!”

“You have to make Sherlock go, he'll smash it.”

“Sherlock's gnarly at general knowledge.”

Sinking down into his chair, Sherlock stared down at his (pathetically easy) Maths homework. They didn't really want him to go because he'd win, they wanted him to go because then he wouldn't be there for a whole day and they'd be safe from his 'games', his deductions.

“Good, Sherlock! Who else will go then, boys?”

Suddenly, silence enveloped the room.

“Boys?”

Someone began to drum a pen against their desk.

“If no one volunteers, I'll pick someone from the register!”

Several heavy sighs and groans.

“Right then...Bradley Daniels, you'll be going along with Sherlock!”

Sherlock banged his head down onto the desk.

* * *

 

The coach was rammed full of eleven to eighteen year old boys (the younger pupils weren't invited, it was an eleven plus event), with no spare seats at all. Miss Jennings was one of the two teachers accompanying the Wilkes team, along with a Physics master called Mr Roberts, who she seemed to like _very_ much.

And Sherlock was sat beside Bradley Daniels, who was very loudly enjoying a bar of chocolate.

Sherlock had first encountered Bradley aged three, at the local primary school. They had become enemies right from the word go when Bradley had pushed Sherlock over into a muddy puddle and had gotten his legs smacked for the trouble. Since then, there had been various feuds and fights, and due to Bradley's massive size and friend group, he was generally the winner.

“Want some chocolate, Sherlolly?”

Sherlock cringed at the nickname. “No, Bradley.”

“Good, I wasn't going to give you any.”

There was a moment of silence, before Bradley grinned. “This team is going to destroy, my brother did it last year and Wilkes came last. With you, we're gonna dominate.”

“My brother's on the team, too.” Sherlock absently replied, his thoughts elsewhere.

“Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?”

Sherlock inwardly rolled his eyes, and then outwardly. “No, my other brother.”

“You have another brother?”

Sherlock didn't dignify it with a response.

* * *

 

To Sherlock's ultimate disgust, they weren't actually competing in their school teams. Instead, three students from each school would be placed into each team, encouraging them to “make new friends” - really, all it caused was conflict and awkwardness.

“Right then – Sherlock and Bradley, you two can go along to team two. Who can go with you?” Miss Jennings smiled a soupy smile at them, but neither were convinced – on the coach two of the older lads had already been promised slipperings by her for larking about too much. She was sour behind her sugary exterior.

Two words began to drum out a staccato rhythm in Sherlock's head: _Not Mycroft, not Mycroft, not Mycroft, not Mycroft..._

Mr Roberts observed the gaggle of boys. “How about you, Holmes? Keep an eye on the youngest lads, eh?” He barked out a laugh, seemingly unaware that both Sherlock and Mycroft were disgusted at the order he had just given. However, as they had been told to, the three loped off towards the team two table. The other six children in the team were there already: from one school there was a plump Chinese girl who looked about as old as Sherlock, a girl so thin she looked like she might snap who was perhaps fifteen and a tiny, squat boy who didn't even look as old as Sherlock and Bradley, and from the other there were three boys who weren't particularly distinguishable from each other but were very different from everyone else in the room: their skin was the colour of milky coffee, and they had soft, curly black hair and clear, dark whiskey eyes. Aged about twelve, they were beautiful little things.

“You three in our team?” They asked simultaneously, in a rather unnerving manner and with very strong Cockney accents.

“No, we just thought we'd take a stroll.” Sherlock replied with an eyeroll. The Chinese girl laughed.

“Ignore them, they're a bit weird. They've hardly ever spoken so far.”

Sherlock nodded. “I'm Sherlock.”

The Chinese girl smiled at him. “I'm Susan.”

They held eye contact for several long moments, before Mycroft ushered Bradley and Sherlock into seats and pompously said, “I'm Mycroft. We're from Wilkes.”

Suddenly, both Sherlock and Susan dissolved into giggles.

“What's funny?” Mycroft asked suspiciously.

“Nothing.” Sherlock innocently replied. In fact, Susan had managed to do a very good imitation of Mycroft as he spoke, pulling her nose up haughtily and wiggling her eyebrows expressively. She even thrust out her already large tummy and rested a hand on it in _just_ the way Mycroft did. As soon as their laughter died down, the group fell silent.

“We're from the John Thompson Academy of Acting.” the skinny girl from Susan's school told them. “I'm Annabelle, and this is Timothy. They're from Baldwin Comprehensive. I don't know their names.”

The atmosphere at the table was very odd. Sherlock and Susan seemed to have struck up a friendship immediately, leaving Mycroft and Bradley to shuffle uncomfortably together, the weird boys from Baldwin were sat tightly together and Annabelle and Timothy were sat together but not looking at each other or addressing each other. Before anyone could say anything more, a tall, rotund man waddled to the front of the large hall full of children.

“Children! Congratulations on being picked for this super-special day!”

Sherlock sank down in his chair and lost all hope in the day.

* * *

 

By midday, which had been assigned as lunch, Sherlock wanted to bang his head against a brick wall. They'd been assigned a series of pointless challenges, one of which his team had one, all under the pompous instruction of Mycroft and the simpering, patronising lead of the man running the day. He had found one light, however: Susan. She turned out to be remarkably intelligent, but with a wicked sense of humour and a skill at imitating people. Her Mycroft was wonderful.

“You can have liver and onions or curried parsnip soup!” the infuriatingly cheerful man exclaimed. None of the children groaned aloud: all were used to disgusting school dinners, and held hopes that the pudding would be better. Sherlock was just venturing towards the vats (one containing slippery purplish meat, one containing orangish fluid) when he felt a soft hand slip into his.

“I've got something better, come with me.”

Susan. Sherlock grinned and followed her – she lead him surreptitiously out of a side door and into a strange, small garden to the side of the conference building.

“I came here last year, there's some benches in a little park just down the street. _And_ I've got chocolate, not that nasty curried muck.”

Absently, Sherlock noticed that they were still holding hands. “We might get into trouble.”

“Who cares?” She grinned at him widely. Within moments, they had reached the said benches, and were still in view of the conference building. However, they were surrounded by trees, and rather a surplus of dog walkers began to come past.

“Why did you start talking to me?” Susan suddenly asked.

“You laughed when I was sarcastic. Most people are too vapid to even understand sarcasm.” Sherlock smiled at her. “My brother understand sarcasm but he's a prick.”

Just as Sherlock hoped, she yanked her features into a Mycroft face, before reaching into her bag and producing a slab of chocolate and two large chicken sandwiches. “Eat your lunch, brother mine, and stop messing around.”

Sherlock laughed loudly. “You have him _exactly_.”

“I go to an acting academy, that's my job. Now, have a sandwich and tell me more about cosine rules.”

“Flirtation at its finest.” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “Cosine rules are...”

* * *

 

Once the chocolate and sandwiches were finished, the two became a little restless.

“Why don't we go for a walk?” Sherlock suggested. “There's no point going back, we're smarter than all of them.”

Susan nodded. “As long as we get back before the end, we'll be fine.”

They began to walk through the light walking area, chatting about anything and everything. Quite a lot of time was spent criticising their siblings (Susan had six of them), before they reached the topic of school.

“Your school is a private school, then?” Susan curiously asked. “My school is selective, but you don't have to pay.”

“Yes. From the couple of years I spent at a non-private school I think that they're quite different.” Sherlock replied.

“In what way?” Susan spoke quietly, before reaching out and linking her hand through Sherlock's. He didn't protest – in his head, he simply thought ' _Silly people, wanting affection_ '.

“At state school I only got my legs slapped. At Wilkes they're happy with the cane and slipper.” The smile that had been consistent on his face since he had met Susan faded slightly.

“Oh believe me, they do at John Thompson's, too!” Susan giggled.

“Are girls physically punished too, then?” Sherlock asked. “I thought that the statistics showed that boys were much more likely to get it than girls.”

Susan nodded. “Boys do probably get it more than girls, but they don't discriminate. I've been slippered on probably fifteen or twenty different occasions.”

Sherlock snorted. “Fifteen or twenty?! You're not trying hard enough!”

Susan laughed too, before suddenly lunging forwards. Ignoring the alarmed expression on Sherlock's face she kissed him gently, reaching the hand that wasn't clasping his around his waist. When he didn't respond she pulled away slightly, staring directly at his face before giggling at his dumbfounded expression.

“Didn't you like that?”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “I don't understand you.”

Susan's smile faltered. “Why?”

“I could tell that you fancied me – no one blushes that much unless they like someone – but I didn't think that you'd kiss me. You didn't seem the type. You'd blather about and then ask me for my address and we'd keep up letters for a while until we gave up. You're not the type to just lunge in for a kiss.”

After Sherlock's brief deductions, Susan nodded slightly. “I think you're attractive, Sherlock. I _know_ that you're ridiculously intelligent, and I feel like I know you more than anyone else. I wanted to kiss you.”

Sherlock reached out and touched her shoulder, before dropping his arm awkwardly again. “Susan, I don't...I liked you kissing me, but I shouldn't, and I know the biology but it's ridiculous and I don't _get_ it. Plus, being a male with an older brother makes you more likely to be gay, and my brother _is_ gay, so I'm surprised that I liked it. I'm just a touch confused. The data isn't working out very well right now.”

“So...can I kiss you again?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Go on, then.”

Their experience in kissing added up to very little, but together they worked something out. Sherlock rested his hands on her fat waist (he found the larger body quite appealing, which surprised him due to social conditioning), with her mirroring his post. They kissed softly, sweetly, with no tongues, for several minutes, occasionally stopping to giggle or gasp for breath. It wasn't sexual in any way, just fun to both and pleasant in a way that neither could precisely pin down.

* * *

 

After a while, the two decided to continue their walk. However, Sherlock made the casual decision to check his watch, his brain slightly 'mushy' from his confusion and the data that he had gathered. He felt incredibly alarmed when he saw that it was five past three – evidently, they'd chatted and eaten for a lot longer than they had thought.

“Susan, it's five past three.”

Susan spun around so fast that in a comic book she'd have had lines radiating from her neck.

“We need to get back – the day was due to end at half two!”

Grabbing hands, the two began to ran back towards the conference building, Susan far outrunning Sherlock in speed. When they slipped back through the door they found the room in chaos – people were searching everywhere, and Miss Jennings was on the phone, looking grim. Sherlock gulped. Despite his aloof, intelligent exterior to most, he knew that he was in terrible trouble. The chocolate began to churn up inside of him, but bravely he walked up to her.

“Miss Jennings?”

The young woman jumped, slammed down the phone receiver and grabbed him into a tight hug.

“Sherlock! We thought you'd been snatched! Do you have the other girl – Susan?”

“Yes, myself and Susan went together.”

The room had began to settle – everyone had heard the young teacher exclaim to him. Susan stood just behind him, looking obstinate but frightened.

“Where were you both?”

Everyone was listening in now.

“We went to go and eat lunch elsewhere. We lost track of time.”

Miss Jennings's face suddenly turned cloudy, and in full hearing of everyone she told him, “When you get back to school I am referring you for a caning. You _need_ one.”

* * *

 

Luckily for Sherlock, they were going straight home from the trip, so his school punishment was postponed until the next day. However, Mycroft seized his arm and dragged him straight home when they got off of the coach.

“I was _socialising_ , Mycroft, mother is always complaining that I don't socialise enough!”

Mycroft turned to his younger brother and glowered at him. “We spent the entire afternoon searching for you two. I thought you'd been snatched! But no, you were just so pigheaded that you decided to go and canoodle with some girl!”

Sherlock flushed pink, which deepened to a scarlet when he saw that his mother was already in the front garden, arms folded. Mycroft practically flung Sherlock at his mother.

“I got a call from school, Sherlock.” she calmly told him.

“Ah, yes.” Sherlock replied. “That makes sense.”

“You're in massive trouble.”

“That also makes sense.”

The matter of fact way that they were talking would have amused Sherlock had he not known that his bottom was on the line.

“Up to your room, and stick your nose in the corner.”

Sherlock obeyed.

* * *

 

While he waited his mother, Sherlock contemplated his fate. His parents would likely consider it a fairly serious crime. He might get the hairbrush, or even the bathbrush. Or – oh god, the cane. Surely not – he was getting the cane the next day anyway! His thoughts were interrupted when the bedroom door opened and closed, and his mother walked over to his bed.

“Come here, Sherlock.”

Turning around, it was all he could do to stifle his groan. His mother had the bathbrush _and_ the cane.

“Your choice, Sherlock. Bathbrush or cane?”

“How many would I be getting?”

“You'll find out after you choose.”

He evaluated the situation. The bathbrush hurt horribly, the nasty older cousin of the hairbrush...but the cane was on a whole other level. Then again, he'd get far fewer of the cane than the bathbrush. But then the cane on top of welts would be worse than the cane on top of a tenderised, maybe slightly bruised, bottom.

“Bathbrush.” Sherlock decided, twisting his slim fingers together and longing for it to be over.

“You're going to have twenty five with the bathbrush. You would have had ten with the cane. Come here and bend over, Sherlock.”

Sighing heavily, Sherlock bent over, pressing his hands into the firm surface of his bed.

“Trousers and underwear.”

Lifting a hand from the bed, he quickly dropped them, feeling embarrassment seep through him. He was frightened, and felt slightly comforted when his mother gently rubbed his back with her hand. Then... _whack_!

Pain. The surface stung but there was instantly an underburn. Not as bad as the cane, oh no, but it hurt. _Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!_

The next four came in quick succession, and made Sherlock stamp hard on the floor in pain. They really were horrible. He knew in his heart of hearts that he _did_ deserve it, he had been rather stupid, but wow! The next ten were slower and spaced out, landing at the pique of pain of the last one. He couldn't see but he could bet his bottom was already bright red.

“Mummy, please stop!” he suddenly exclaimed, pain shooting through him. He then cringed – how could he revert back to calling her _mummy_? Gently, she rubbed his back.

“We're almost done for today, Sherlock. Almost done. You've got less left than you've already had.”

The final ten burned horribly. It was arguably one of the worst spankings he'd ever had, and the most he'd every gotten in one go from the bathbrush. He was sobbing by the end of it, tears dribbling down his face and leaving dark drops on his grey duvet.

“All done, sweetie. Come here.”

Sherlock immediately crawled into his mother's lap, and she held him tightly as he cried, rubbing his back gently just as she did when he was tiny and he'd been punished.

“Mother?”

“Yes, love?”

“I _can't_ be caned on top of this tomorrow. Can...can you phone them and get them to postpone it, just for a couple of days?”

As Mrs Holmes watched her son's stoicism dry up, she nodded gently into his curly mop. “I'll talk to the headmaster, sweetie. Don't worry.”

* * *

 

Two days later, before lessons had began, Sherlock was stood anxiously outside of the headmaster's office. After hearing of Sherlock's harsh home punishment, he had agreed to postpone it by another day to give him a bit of recovery time. As it was, there was only very slight bruising from the bathbrush, and his bottom was barely tender any more.

“Holmes, come in.”

The headmaster evidently wasn't in the mood for messing about. He slammed the door shut and indicated the desk.

“You know what to do. You are incredibly disobedient, and you evidently don't care for anyone or anything. You are lucky not to be expelled.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock bent over into the familiar position, wincing at the burn of stretching out the still-sore muscle.

_Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Six strokes reigned down in less than six seconds, each making a dull, thwanging noise as they banged down on his tight trousers. Sherlock gripped the dish tightly, eyes scrunched up, amazed at the sudden wave of intense pain.

“Go, Holmes, and sin no more.”

Sherlock managed a smile, which the headmaster returned.

* * *

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

 

_I found your address quite easily – honestly, your family need to take you out of the phone book, you must annoy enough people that there'll be people trying to murder you any day. How are you? Did you get into trouble for our escapade? I got eight with the slipper, it hurt horribly. I enjoyed kissing you very much, though, and it was probably worth it. Look, my school is doing a Science day with yours next month. I take it that you don't generally volunteer for that stuff...but please do? It'd be nice to see you again. If you don't, I'll send you poo in the post. Maybe. Probably not. I don't have the money for postage!_

 

_ From, _

 

_ Susan x _

 


End file.
